


Tend To Corrupt  (Part 2/2)

by Unsentimentalf



Series: Black Hole [3]
Category: Sherlock BBC
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-12
Updated: 2010-09-12
Packaged: 2017-10-12 05:35:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/121367
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Unsentimentalf/pseuds/Unsentimentalf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lestrade comes up against resistance in his attempts to subject no 221B to the rule of law.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tend To Corrupt  (Part 2/2)

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to the various people whose comments have helped to take this in interesting directions.

The anticipated explosion did not occur. Instead Sherlock seized his coat from the back of the chair, flung his scarf around his neck with that familiar disdainful gesture, pushed past the police officers and down to the front door.

John moved, at that. "Coat," he announced and was off up the stairs to his bedroom. Lestrade shouldn't technically let him out of sight but right now he mostly had Sherlock in mind. "Catch us up," he said to Donovan and he was off after Sherlock.

His detective had just flagged down a taxi. Lestrade seized the car door as it was closing, narrowly keeping his fingers, blocked it with his body.

"Where do you think you're going?"

Sherlock's voice was rougher than usual. "Are you detaining me, officer?"

Was he? It was undeniably John's gun. Charging Sherlock for aiding and abetting would likely turn into a farce, as Holmes refused the caution and the CPS went ballistic on seeing the file and what he'd let Watson away with.

Sherlock was way ahead of him, as usual. "So get out of the way."

"Where are you going?"

Sherlock tugged at the handle without answering and Lestrade moved reluctantly away, watched the door slam, Sherlock lean forward to speak to the driver, the car pull away into the traffic.

And here was John, bundled out onto the pavement looking grim and unco-operative, and Sally, not looking happy either. So he'd managed to upset everyone and lose track of a volatile and dangerous drug addict, and his conscience didn't seem that much cleaner.

"You just let him leave!" John sounded disgusted. "You really don't give a damn, do you? He's still sick."

"He's not sick. He's experiencing the consequences of his own illegal actions, Doctor. You weren't so worried about him a few days ago."

Lestrade caught himself. Why the hell did he keep challenging John about this? How and why the two men had fallen out was really none of his concern. None of his professional concern.

John turned a stiff shoulder, back to to Sally. "Can we please get on with this, Sergeant? The dog will need walking soon."

Lestrade sighed to himself, flagged down a second taxi.

 

Back in the office there were a gaggle of community liaison officers waiting for Lestrade. He left John Watson with the processing team without another word, pulled Sally aside. "Cab no 577. Find out where he went, if you can."

Because yes, he was worried about Sherlock's welfare; not twenty four hours since he'd seen the man sedated and incoherent, but more still he was worried about what Sherlock might be doing. They had played enough oneupmanship games in the past but they'd never actually been on opposite sides before. Lestrade really didn't relish joining London's criminal underclass as the subject of Sherlock Holmes' professional attentions because he knew damn well how good the man really was.

And then it was back to the stabbing case and fresh witness appeals.

The five minutes that Lestrade really needed to sit down and think about what he'd started this afternoon didn't come. Community liaison was followed by some urgent surveillance requests, and then Sally Donovan, knocking politely on the glass door as if he'd any option but to let her in.

"The cab dropped him at Euston." Transport hub; no need to comment further.

"How's processing?"

Her eyes flicked up to his, uncomfortable. "Are you sure we've pulled in the right man?"

"John Watson's not an innocent, Sally. He took that gun on his own account, and he's getting off lightly."

"Holmes has got off scot-free. He's the one in control. "

Lestrade shook his head. "Not necessarily. There's a hell of a lot of unrequited there and you'll note it wasn't the good doctor on the all-out self-destruction jag."

He watched her process that one. Watched her smile.

"John told the freak to fuck off out of it? Damn, are you sure we can't cut him loose? Maybe give him a medal?"

"Donovan!" His snap was harsher than he'd intended, but Watson wasn't his idea of a hero. "No vendettas, Sally. I want everyone within the rules from now on- us and them."

"Holmes is out there breaking a dozen of them right now, boss." She was unrepentant, and almost certainly right.

"You catch him at it, you can act. But no unholy alliances."

She stood to go. "Don't worry. I won't need them."

He stood with her, an automatic politeness. It showed his age, amongst these young officers. From here he could see the front desk.

"Shit!"

That wasn't so polite. She turned to see what had caused it.

"Marsh! Unexpected visit?"

"Yep. Though knowing Sherlock nothing should be unexpected. Get Watson finished, get him out of here, don't let them cross paths. I want to be able to say honestly that it's done."

Lestrade took a breath and strode out of his office to meet the Met's Commissioner of Police and the unfamiliar man by her side.

"Commissioner." He held out his hand, was met with her usual firm grip. "My office?"

"Please."

He led the way, showed them into the two chairs on the other side of his desk. "Can I get you any refreshment?"

"Not for me, thanks." Elida Marsh was all business this evening. "I'm not staying. I only came by to introduce Mycroft."

Lestrade waited a couple of heartbeats, realised that that was all introduction he was going to get. He stood up and introduced himself, studying the man curiously.

A civil servant, surely, from both demeanour and his presence here. But while the Home Office was full of bright young things these days with fashionable haircuts and expensive glasses, this man was ostentatiously old school, despite not being nearly old enough for that.Younger than him, by some way, but there was a waistcoat under the jacket and a rather nice silk tie.

Still, had to be Home Office. Which meant some serious strings being pulled somewhere. Damn Sherlock.

"I often feel the same way myself," the man offered, wryly.

Lestrade was too accustomed to Sherlock to manage much in the way of surprise. Another mind reader. Just what he needed.

Marsh stood up. "Must get off, I'm afraid. I'll leave Mycroft here with you." What Lestrade was meant to do with him hadn't been touched upon but he was sure someone knew what they were doing. And that he wouldn't like it.

He showed her out, returned to his office and his unwanted guest. He wasn't in the mood for pussyfooting around.

"You know Sherlock."

"Very well." And that calm certainty was unlikely, for a start.

The man had something of a feel of Sherlock about him, but while Sherlock could never be less than the centre of any place's attention, Mycroft seemed like a man comfortable in shadows.

Boyfriend, ex or current? That might explain the similar mannerisms. Would annoy John, too, for all that he didn't want Sherlock himself. He watched the man sitting tightly and precisely in the chair. They must be a bundle of laughs in bed. Of course, given all that barely controlled energy that radiated from each of them, the result might just be a bloody huge explosion.

"You are," Mycroft offered, "on the wrong track entirely. Sorry."

"Sorry?"

"Obviously you liked that idea."

And Lestrade had spent far too long around Sherlock to want that one explained.

"Home Office, though?"

"Sometimes. When necessary."

And what exactly did that mean?

"You could call me peripatetic."

Lestrade had never to his recollection ever used the word but he knew what it meant, this time. MI5 or 6. Probably didn't matter which as far as he was concerned. There were protocols for the secret service to interfere with Met investigations but none of them involved having an officer personally introduced to him by the Met Commissioner. She'd stood up in the past for her department against MI5 and MI6 interference. That she wasn't doing so now was as much a message to him as the presence of this smooth spoken man in his office.

"Sherlock works for you?'

That amused the man. "He does his best to avoid it. Sometimes he doesn't succeed."

"And John Watson?" Lestrade was not going to pretend that he didn't know what this was about.

"Dr Watson has been of considerable assistance in the past. I imagine that he will be similarly helpful in the future, not least because of the restraining influence that he is capable of having on my brother. Despite the fraught nature of their current relationship."

Brother. God, there were two of them! And Sherlock's brother was high level secret service and that meant one of two things. Either Sherlock's activities were officially sanctioned by powers considerably more authoritative than Lestrade, or the corruption went much higher.

Either way he'd just wasted an afternoon. Might as well get this clarified, although he had no doubt that this was entirely off any records whatsoever.

"Am I to understand that John Watson is an legitimately armed covert security operator?"

That got a careful smile. "You could certainly understand that, yes."

Which meant scrap the arrest records and return the gun. And have John bloody Watson sniggering at him for ever after.

"And what about your brother?" Brothers- he could see it now. Hell of a family.

"Sherlock?" Polite enquiry.

"Yes, Sherlock. Unless there are any more of you around, God forbid. Does he have a get out of jail free card too?" Had the drug use been cover? Had the original argument been just cover? His mind was racing back over years of Sherlock's oddities. Lies?

"No, I'm afraid that Sherlock is quite genuinely troubled, Inspector. He is also a security asset of national importance and I happen to be very fond of him, though he chooses to believe otherwise. Reconciling these three is not always simple, as you yourself have become painfully aware."

Answering the question in his head not the one he'd asked. Maybe it was genetic.

"I really wouldn't describe myself as very fond of Sherlock, Mr Holmes."

A raised eyebrow. "My apologies. I was seeking to be tactful, Inspector. That's not precisely how I would describe you, either."

Lestrade looked past his visitor to the open office beyond. Donovan wasn't yet back behind her desk. It was getting late; the officers thinning out gradually. Everything certainly looked normal enough out there. So why was stuff in here going to hell?

He looked back at Mycroft Holmes. Treat him like Sherlock. Something like Sherlock. Indignation had never been useful with his brother; he doubted that it was any less futile here.

"Is that a matter of national security as well?"

"Not at present." The man bobbed a nod at him, oddly hesitant given his previous demeanour. "Call it a personal interest. I sleep more comfortably knowing that Sherlock has people to look out for him."

"Sod all use any of us have been recently." Sherlock, high as a kite, not listening to a word he said and laughing at nothing at all. Sherlock furious, coming down badly, lashing out at Sally's gibes. Sherlock curled up and vulnerable on that couch, with John keeping out of reach like the poor man had it in him to jump him.

"Sherlock has been surprisingly unpredictable recently, and I am aware that he has been making life particularly difficult for the people around him. Even for John Watson, though I believe that you are unlikely to sympathise there."

Lestrade had lain awake, on occasion, wondering how Sherlock could get any worse. Now he knew. Sherlock could doubtless untangle the relationships of the people around him but it didn't interest him, except as an easy way to wind up Lestrade's officers. This dapper man with the faintly sympathetic smile could apparently deconstruct all their desires and jealousies as easily as Sherlock could analyse bloodstains. No wonder Sherlock didn't get on with him.

"Difficult doesn't really cover it."  
"Quite. My sympathies to your sergeant. After that your...tightening...of the regime was entirely understandable and handled extremely professionally. It does however raise some practical problems."

And here it no doubt came. Back off, Inspector. Let Sherlock Holmes roam London unchecked, unaccountable. Untouchable. For genuine national security purposes, or just because his brother had that sort of power; Lestrade would likely never know which.

Definite regret in Mycroft's voice now. Doubtless intentional. "I won't insult your integrity by pointing out that this gets you off a number of distinctly awkward hooks. If you had been the sort of man who seeks easy solutions, or personal advantage, we wouldn't be having this conversation tonight."

Personal advantage, Lestrade thought, wryly. Hardly. The only thing worse, personally, than having to try to leash Sherlock was to have to let him run free.

"I will of course have to sever my association with your brother." He didn't try to hide the regret there, not from this man.

Light blue eyes regarded him steadily. "I hope that you will reconsider that. You manage to harness Sherlock's skills to useful ends. Should he cease to work with the police, which in practice we both know means with you, then everyone would be worse off, Sherlock most of all."

"I can't work with someone outside the law."

"Of course you can't. And he isn't. Just outside the jurisdiction of the Metropolitan Police, in certain small ways. Not your concern. Professionally speaking."

As if Sherlock was, quite naturally, his concern in other, personal ways.

"Small ways. Like assault?"

Mycroft was stone. "That won't happen again, I assure you." And Lestrade looked into blue eyes cold as diamond and thought that maybe there were other reasons why Sherlock might not get on with his undoubtedly older sibling. Maybe that first image of explosion was not so far off the mark.

"I would be personally grateful," the man said, and the glimpse of stone might never have been there, "if you could maintain your relationship with Sherlock, as far as you feel able to do so. He is remarkably good at estranging himself in whole or in part from those who concern themselves with his welfare."

That wasn't entirely fair. Lestrade felt obliged to defend the man to his brother. "As far as I understand it, Sherlock wasn't to blame for John's behaviour. The man behaved appallingly."

"And thought better of it, after your intervention. Sherlock's singlemindedness can be disconcerting if one is a direct target of it, or indeed if one is not." That particular message was coming across loud and clear. Unnecessarily so. Lestrade had no illusions in that direction. Didn't mean that he had to like John Watson any better for it.

"My brother values his relationship with you, Inspector, although he would not admit it. There are other methods that he could have adopted this afternoon. That he came to me, despite his usual extreme reluctance to ask me for any assistance and in view of his current mental state, suggests a very strong desire to settle matters between you amicably."

And what exactly did that mean? That Sherlock could have made life hell for him and chose not to? Lestrade decided that he'd ignore the faintest suggestion of something more directly violent in Mycroft's words.

Enough of this. He hadn't intended to discuss his personal feelings, even obliquely, with a man he'd met ten minutes previously. In this office he was a Detective Inspector and the only thing to concern him was the police handling of this matter.

"I'll advise my staff of the status of Holmes and Watson. Discreetly, of course." Sally would get John cut loose, as she'd wanted, but he doubted that she'd see it as much consolation for finding Sherlock untouchable again.

Mycroft nodded. "It may be helpful to you to know that Sherlock is not aware of the contents of this conversation. I advised him that I could probably get John released but you might find life a little easier if he doesn't know the extent of his "get out of jail free card" as you so eloquently put it. As long as nothing actually ends up with the CPS, of course. Might I suggest that you visit Baker Street to 'clarify' the situation with my brother and his colleague?"

He could suggest it, but that was Lestrade's business. He stood up. "A pleasure to meet you, Mr Holmes."

Mycroft smiled at that, took his hand. "In my case, at least, that is a precisely accurate summation. I look forward to our next meeting." He allowed the smile to reach his eyes, just for a moment, conspiratorial, almost warm, and Lestrade was forcefully reminded of Sherlock, who had never once shared a look like that with him in a long five years.

Sally was back to watch the man depart. No point in beating around the bush.

"We're going to cancel the arrest records and return the gun."

"And Holmes?" She was still, waiting on his answer.

"Going to backpedal a little on that one, too, for now. Not completely, but don't go looking for issues. And absolutely advise me before taking any action in future." He wasn't going to tell her that Sherlock was untouchable. Holmes was less likely to find out that way.

"The bastard!" She took a deep breath. "Mind telling me how he managed that, Sir?"

He oughtn't to tell her. This was definitely classified. But he could see the doubt back in her eyes, and he wasn't having her think he'd been bribed or blackmailed.

"Security services got involved. Sorry, Sally. You saw the Commissioner. It's way out of my hands."

"So that's it? Freak gets to do anything he wants? You know my opinion, Sir. He's a damn bomb just waiting and he'll take others with him. We going to be clearing up the mess afterwards?"

"It's not that bad. We can haul him in, if necessary. Just a light touch over the smaller things."

"Like we've always done before." Her voice was flat.

"Like that, yes."

And there seemed nothing more to say, after that.

Donovan stood up. "I'll ring John, tell him to collect the gun."

"No need. I'll drop by Baker Street on my way home."

"Want company?"

"Not this time, Donovan, thanks."

And she'd take from that that there was stuff he wasn't telling her, but she'd assume it was official confidential. Some of it was.

 

Third time in two days he'd waited at the door of 221B. John again; maybe Mrs Hudson was away.

"Yes?"

Lestrade could hear the wail of Sherlock's violin from up the stairs. Back safely, then. One less worry.

"Can I come in?"

"Got a warrant? You're wasting your time. There's nothing to find."

"No warrant. But I do need to come inside."

John eyed him, clearly minded to refuse. Lestrade pulled the corner of the evidence bag out from under his jacket. "This needs signing for. I don't want to do it on the street."

That got a flicker of something. "Come in, then. Don't harass Sherlock."

Lestrade bit down on all the responses that he wanted to make to that and followed John inside.

Sherlock had one leg up on the couch, violin under his chin, eyes closed in what was probably either concentration or enjoyment but with Sherlock could always be something else completely. It wasn't what Lestrade would have called music, but it was familiar. He'd stood here, or on equivalent patches of carpet, before, sometimes waiting impatiently for the real business to begin, sometimes just watching man and violin.

Of course there hadn't previously been John Watson, arms folded, glowering at him. Changed the ambience, and not for the better.

"Is that my pistol?"

"Yes." He placed the bag on the desk, pushing papers aside. "I need your signature on the receipt."

"I still don't have a licence." Watson made no move towards it. "Is this a game?"

"I understand that you are authorised to carry it." Lestrade read John's blank expression with dismay. Mycroft had *told* him!

The instrument had stopped. Sherlock was lounging on the couch, laughing.

"What, precisely, did my dear brother tell you, Inspector? And what did he persuade you to assume?"

Lestrade scrambled to recall. Mycroft had definitely said that John had been of use. But "You could understand that," was not, now he came to deconstruct it, actually confirmation that Watson was authorised as a covert operative.

Bloody hell! MI5, MI6 had mandatory procedures for weapons, just as the Med did. These two apparently disregarded everyone's rules equally.

Donovan would have cleared the paperwork on the caution by now. They'd have to start that all over. Lestrade put his hand on the plastic bag, fingers curling over the unyielding metal underneath. Looked down at it, back up to Sherlock's calculating gaze.

"How long do you think that you can hold out this time, Inspector?"

Mycroft Holmes, Elida Marsh, both of whom could and no doubt would overrule him. John Watson, slightly more than a pawn in all this. And Sherlock Holmes, who did not, ever, let an unfinished matter drop.

The law wasn't going to win. Not this time. And he and his career could go down with it , or he could take a deep breath and leap over the side, and no-one but the three of them would know.

He'd done what he could, but he wouldn't fight the inevitable any more. Corruption, he told himself, but even that word was losing its power to shock. Merely the price of consulting Sherlock Holmes. He took his hand away.

"Just sign the receipt, put the bloody thing somewhere safe and don't shoot anyone with it."

"And the caution?" That was Sherlock.

"It's been rescinded. Nothing at all on his record."

"Thank you, Inspector." A quick, studied smile. Nothing like his brother's.

John was signing the receipt, checking the weapon carefully. No thanks there.

"Your brother," Lestrade said, ruefully, "is worse than you are."

"No, he isn't." That had Sherlock on his feet, unusually belligerent. Withdrawal, Lestrade reminded himself. "Party tricks, that's all. Misdirection. No actual intelligence required."

"He did exert himself on your behalf." Lestrade should possibly not go down that particular route, but for all Mycroft's deliberate misdirection, he was at least human in his concern for his ungrateful sibling.

"Yes." Sherlock was considering him now. "What form did that exertion take, exactly?"

Careful now. "He led me to believe that you are both occasionally involved in national security matters."

"I could have told you that. So are you calling your hound off?"

"Sergeant Donovan," Lestrade stressed the title," will not be actively reviewing your operations. If irregularities come to light, however, you will be accountable. Both of you."

Sherlock was still watching him intently. "There's something that you're not telling me. Something Mycroft said."

Lestrade looked directly back at him. "We talked about a lot of things. Not all about you."

"Ha! I find that unlikely." Sherlock waved a hand. "This is definitely connected with me."

Lestrade sent up a silent, unprofessional prayer. Let the man discover his get out of jail status and be content. He found that his eyes had slid away from the other man's face.

"Oh. That." Sherlock sounded disappointed. "The man has to make everything into a soap opera. That's not remotely important."

"What isn't?" John had looked up from his gun.

Shut up, Sherlock. Please.

"The Inspector's 'emotions'," The word was pronounced with some disdain.

Lestrade found that there was a huge and unexpected difference between the absence of hope and the confirmation of indifference. It changed nothing, he told himself. Nothing.

John frowned at him, and he could see the exact moment when comprehension dawned. Just stay professional, he told himself.

John put the weapon down. His face was drawn in disapproval. John had his hang-ups, Lestrade thought. Was bigoted. They all knew that. He could fairly dismiss whatever John Watson said. He found that he still didn't want to hear it.

"You should have a little empathy, or at least the decency to be civil, given your situation, Sherlock. I manage not to sneer at your feelings, however unwelcome they are." John's voice was harsh.

Lestrade blinked. Sherlock was frowning at John. "That's completely different."

"Just because he doesn't go to pieces and take cocaine? That's because he's an adult, Sherlock."

The detective turned back to Lestrade. Sherlock looked momentarily baffled. "Is it different?"

"How the hell should I know?" Lestrade was trying not to be utterly mortified and mainly failing. "As you said, it really doesn't matter to you, does it? Just forget it."

"Is it unpleasant?" Sherlock was watching him as closely as if he were a damn corpse.

"No. Yes. Sometimes. It doesn't make any difference to anything, It's just a thing. Can we drop this now?"

"Undoubtedly," Sherlock said, thoughtfully, "similarities." A quick, thin smile. "My commiserations." He picked up the violin again, closed his eyes.

John looked at Lestrade, shrugged. Raised his voice over the instrument. "I imagine you're off duty now."

"I guess so." Please, not more stuff off the record.

"Good. I need a beer. Want one?" John was opening the fridge.

"Thanks," He'd said it before he'd really thought, was rewarded with, dear God, a genuine smile from John Watson.

They stood in the kitchen drinking cold beer, watching Sherlock play. Lestrade could feel John shifting next to him, nervously. God, he couldn't be that homophobic, could he? Lestrade was only standing here. But, no, John just had something to say.

"Look," he started. Licked his lips, tried again. "Look. He's got a right to something. God knows I don't want him doing without on my account. I don't claim to understand, but if you want...that might be better than this."

There really was going to be no end to the awkward conversations tonight. Lestrade sighed. "I don't think Sherlock works like that. You heard him; I wouldn't have a snowball in hell's chance, even if it wasn't for you. And it would be unprofessional anyway. But I appreciate the thought. And the beer."

He picked up his coat, called out a goodbye to Sherlock. Who, he decided, probably didn't hear him over the music, and certainly didn't care. But as he reached the bottom of the stairs and put his hand on the door the music stopped. As he glanced back a familiar profile showed against the room light above, a resonating voice;

"A consulting detective is never unprofessional, Inspector. Whatever he may choose to do."

And all Lestrade could do in response to the sheer bloody unreasonable audacity of that statement was lose his temper yet again or smile.

Sometimes, just sometimes, there was a lot to be said for the path of least resistance. "Goodnight, Sherlock," he called back, stepped out into the glare of the London streetlights and set off for home.

 

THE END


End file.
